Hanging the Puppet
by Seven Perseids
Summary: He was missing a toe, that was true, but it was well worth the sacrifice. One-shot.


**Disclaimer:** I own nothing.

**- Hanging the Puppet -  
**

It had been nine years, and Peter Pettigrew was growing sluggish.

He had never flattered himself with delusions of grandeur. There was nothing, had always been nothing about him that commanded power or respect; and, having contented himself with his lot, he had lived his life on constant watch for those little shifts in the tide that would change his standing with those of greater stature. Emotions in particular were important to follow; one false move when his master was in a foul mood could mean being eaten alive by that beastly snake—what was its name? Nagini?—or a jolt with the Cruciatus Curse, or something along those lines. He was as bite-sized and inflatable as the rodents the Dark Lord used to practice the Curse on in between kills. Every bit as insignificant, every bit as powerless, wretched, and pitiful.

He never been witty, inventive, well-liked, or even well-noticed. He had never been particularly strong-willed, independent-minded, or quick on the draw; he had never been a fighter, martyr, or hero. People would call him a leech and he would believe them. Of course he clung to those of greater ability than he; there was no other way for such a pathetic specimen as himself to survive. It didn't hurt them, and he'd learned to do it quietly. After all, Sirius, James, and Remus had hardly noticed him unless they wanted something of him; who was he to say anyone else would act differently? Peter Pettigrew, the entire world's little rag...fine. Humans were ugly, mindless creatures, and if he had to appease them to keep them from crushing him, then that was what he would do.

Now, as a rat, he took relief in the notion that his insignificance meant nothing he'd ever done could be held against him. At worst he would have to plead guilty on the basis of his fear; at best he could plead guilty on the basis of his inability to fight someone with such an obvious advantage over him. Either way, he reasoned, it didn't truly have to be his fault. Stronger people than he had been tricked by the Dark Lord. He could always say that if push came to shove.

—Not that it mattered. He was missing a toe, that was true, but it was well worth the sacrifice. He could sink into the fog at whim now, sink in and allow it to envelop his scraggly little body as it gathered in small, oily beads on his fur each time he woke from a nightmare in a cold sweat. The fog could be as thick or thin as he wanted: jelly or water, air or vacuum. The rat's brain had grown complacent over years of daily feedings and newspaper bedding, and it was as easy to control as it was to hide behind. Unlike the human in him, the rat didn't trouble itself with guilt or introspection.

He had consigned the human to the darkest, dankest corner of the rat's mind; sometimes the human rattled the bars, threw temper tantrums, sniveled at the lock. _Keep him in the brig,_ Peter thought foggily._ No use letting him out. He'll only cause a racket. We don't need that in here._

The human was noisy when he slept. So noisy, in fact, that Peter would sometimes wake up and bury himself beneath a pillow or a pile of old bedding and food to suffocate the sounds. The smells and textures of the fabric and litter hypnotized him, binding, gagging and dragging the shouting hazel- and green-eyed faces into the back alleys of his mind. They'd clatter and clang about back there for a bit, thumping and bumping against trash cans, brick walls, and empty boxes, but after a while they'd grow tired and lie still. Then the human would fall silent and sleep. In his mind's eye Peter would wipe the dribble of spit from the human's chin with a rag and then go back to sleep himself.

There were other boarders living in his skull as well, of course; the human was the least of his problems. There was a dog, a wolf, a snake, a man whose eyes had gone the color of blood, and the damp, splintered edge of terror. There was really no way to put down their tantrums—the only thing to be done was to hide, try to drown them in the fog. Make it as opaque and glutinous as it could become. Smear their faces with it and pump it into their mouths. Let it ooze into their pores and lungs. Let it asphyxiate them.

The terror had been a problem during the early days of his transformation. The rat was immune to memory and guilt, but it knew fear well enough. Peter had had to train it to cooperate with him; the rat had always wanted to flee when it was afraid, but Peter had needed it to run straight into the threat, not away from it. Those early days were miserable indeed—nauseated, twitching with fear, and hiding amid the filth and stench of a sewer, he had been unable to plot a course above ground. _They'll come back, all of them, and they'll want to kill me. He'll come back and torture me for what James and Lily's bastard did to him._

At length, however, he had found a way to make the rat work for him: feed it when it ran towards the threat and starve it when it ran away. All the rat wanted was to stay alive; well, that wasn't difficult to manage. No figment of his imagination was a physical threat to the rat's well-being, so starvation eventually became more worrisome than the whining, unmemorable little human and his peculiar-looking neighbors.

Using the rat as a shield was second-nature now. He could suffocate nightmares within moments of having them and muffle voices within moments of hearing them. That was the beauty of living in a world populated by memories: Peter could fool himself into believing they were figments of his imagination. When the figments grew restless, he could comfort himself with the thought that those people, whether dead or alive, couldn't possibly care about him, the rat, the worthless little speck of dust. He could drown the memory of their voices and faces in the gray miasma. Push them into a corner. Let the fog choke them like asbestos.

It had been nine years. They must have forgotten about him by now.

x.x.x.x.x.x.x.x.x

A/N: I wrote this in 2007 and originally posted it at The Unknowable Room (gosh, it's been quiet over there recently). So this isn't my most recent work, but perhaps it's one of my more unusual ones. Stylistically I guess it's okay. Hope you enjoyed! :)


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